


A Dream of Spring

by Val_tyr



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Adventure, Fantasy, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-11-21
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:12:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_tyr/pseuds/Val_tyr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fakir has stopped writing. Strange disappearances and troubling dreams precede the arrival of a letter from Siegfried calling him to the story world's aid. He must take up the role of the Knight once more, but he will not go alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Frühlingssehnsucht

**Author's Note:**

> **A Dream of Spring, chapter 1**

**A Dream of Spring, chapter 1**

 _Author's Note:_

This story starts from a slightly bleaker interpretation of the series's ending. Additionally, the story is titled after a poem, not an unreleased book by George R. R. Martin. George will never get around to finishing that, though, so I feel all right using this title.

* * *

Summer was coming. Fakir could see it in the trees that lined the river winding around the academy's campus as he idly strolled along its edge, their tender green leaves unfurling and deepening in color in the generous late-April sun. Remarkable, really, considering the gray and drizzly spring that had recently passed. Even the river, no longer in a state of constant churning from steady rainwater, was as sparklingly clear and bright as the day. He relished days like these, though one would never know just by watching him looking stone-faced across the stream, his expression more contemplative than reverent.

He settled down at the base of a nearby tree, leaning heavily against its smooth trunk as he contemplated his right hand. He closed it into a fist, opened it, and closed it again. Miraculously, the pen knife he had driven through it had missed every delicate bone, leaving him with a reasonably small scar and full use of his hand with the exception of the occasional ache. Recently, even the aching had ceased. The rest was doing it good.

He had not written a single word about the town, the people, the weather, or ducks, in several weeks. The town was stabilized, open, free of the Story's hold. There was no need for another person to step into the role of God for any longer than was expressly necessary, especially someone like him. Such power did not belong in the hands of a human being; the town ought to be left to grow and change on its own now that he had at least set right all that Drosselmeyer had done. Such had been his reasoning in the weeks leading up to his final decision to stop writing the town's story. He had acclimated himself to the idea, convinced himself that he was in the right. Autor, of course, had disagreed. After nearly two years of tolerating Autor, Fakir had thought very little of the brief argument that followed.

Recently, though, he had begun to doubt himself. Though he still believed that he had made the right decision, he wondered if he had made it for the right reasons. Autor's accusations echoed in his mind at inopportune moments. You're only afraid. You can't be bothered to learn how to properly control it. You're wasting a gift.

His subconscious mind, somehow, was even more deeply troubled. The past month had been a restless one. The entirety of each night was spent deep in dreaming, and each morning he awoke feeling no more rested than he had before settling into his bed. Miraculously, his concentration at school had yet to suffer as a result, but he imagined it was only a matter of time.

Looking up into the boughs of the tree, he recalled the forest he found himself in each night. In his dreams, he rode half-blind through a moonlit forest, weaving between the trees in pursuit of another rider. Each night, he closed the distance between himself and the other man, and each night he cut him down. At first, he had been reminded of the Ghost Knight, but as time went on and the dream repeated itself nightly, the scenario seemed less and less familiar. The first difference that Fakir noticed was also the most troubling.

The man was unarmed. He shuddered slightly in spite of the warm sun on his face as he recalled the phantom sensation of his sword easily slashing through the man's side, sending him toppling from his saddle to sprawl out in a bleeding heap on the snow.

To dream of tracking down and murdering a helpless man was one thing, but to revisit the dream each night was quite another. While he didn't care to ascribe some supernatural explanation to the dreams - Drosselmeyer was gone, and with him such things as the Ghost Knight - the psychiatric interpretations of such dreams were no more comforting.

Neither was waking from the dream in pain, his chest aching and burning. He would wake curled in on his side, breathless and sore for several minutes before the pain drained away leaving him feeling almost numb. This had begun only recently, within the past week. Unfortunately, the pain grew more intense with each passing day. This morning he had felt...

As though he would be split in half. Fakir didn't want to think of it that way, but it was a difficult thought to ignore.

With all this on his mind, it was really no surprise that Fakir had found no time that day to visit the lake. It was no excuse, of course, but it was hardly surprising. When he did have the time to visit, he was relieved that Ahiru hadn't asked to see any of his writing. He had yet to tell her that he had stopped. He felt it was an insult to her sacrifice, and had not yet prepared an explanation that would adequately justify it to her. She would accept any explanation, he imagined, taking it all in stride with as much of a smile as a duck could manage. But it would hurt her, and he didn't want that. He had already failed her so many times, missed so many visits. He had failed so many times to give her a body that would match her mind, and she forgave him every time.

A minor ruckus across the stream jarred him from his thoughts, and he was grateful enough for the distraction that he craned his neck to peer over the shrubs lining the opposite bank to see just what the chatter was about. A small group of girls - from the intermediate class, from the look of them - followed their instructor in a huddled, chattering mass, glancing this way and that as if they expected something to spring out of the shrubs and attack them. The presence of the instructor, whose name Fakir had forgotten again, piqued his interest.

"Is something the matter?" he called as he got to his feet. The girls jumped and gave little undignified squeaks, and Fakir found himself fixed with five wide-eyed stares. Their teacher hushed them.

"Miss Freya has slipped away from class again," she said. He swept a stray curl of black hair from her eyes and sighed in barely restrained annoyance.

"She's disappeared!" one of the girls piped up. The others nodded as if to confirm this.

"Just like Gisila did," another said. "And Lucia, too."

"Enough!" their instructor hissed. "No more gossip about this; I won't have you perpetuating any more rumors. Gisila and Lucia are being searched for and will be found, wherever they've gone. It isn't unusual for Miss Freya to shirk her responsibilities once summer arrives, even when she's to assist me." She huffed and turned back to Fakir. "I apologize for them. Now, Mr. Fakir, have you seen Miss Freya?"

"I haven't," Fakir said simply. As troubled as he was by the sudden unexplained disappearance of the two girls, he couldn't imagine Freya's truancy being at all related. He turned to leave, uninterested in the search and the girls' frantic speculations.

"Well, you are returning to your own class, I hope," the woman called to him. Her voice held a note of disapproving expectation.

"I was walking home for lunch, actually," Fakir replied, not bothering to turn around. If she wanted to implicitly accuse him of skipping class, he figured she didn't deserve his full attention.

Fakir was greeted by an empty house and a covered plate of food on the kitchen table, as was his usual lunchtime routine. Days when Karon could find time enough to eat lunch during times Fakir was permitted to wander off into town were rare. The strain on Karon's schedule brought about by living with no wife to run errands while he worked and a young son in school had escaped Fakir's notice when he was much younger, when Raetsel would stop by to help with whatever was needed and Fakir himself still took all his lessons at home. Now, though, the strain on his adoptive father was quite clear, and without Mytho to follow him home, Fakir almost always took lunch alone. It wasn't as if anyone had any reason to invite him over.

He washed his hands, ate in silence, and left. Normally he would go up to his room to read, but he had wasted too much time staring up into the trees to justify dawdling any longer. He had a reputation for truancy to dispel, after all.

A deep frown pulled at he corners of his mouth when, upon opening the front door, he was greeted by Autor's smug face. The other boy's hand was poised to knock on the door, and he quickly lowered it.

"What are you doing at my house?" Fakir demanded before Autor could so much as open his mouth.

With an air of entitlement that only he could muster, Autor replied, "I had news for you, and I know that you take lunch at home. So I came here. Simple, isn't it?"

Fakir scoffed and shoved his way past Autor, shutting the door behind him. "Don't be coy. Just tell me what was so important that you had to stalk me."

"You have a letter," Autor replied, the knowing smile on his face spreading even wider.

"Just how do you know whether I have a letter or not?" Fakir asked as he began to walk off toward he academy. He wasn't particularly interested in the answer.

Autor followed, and Fakir fixed him with a paralyzing glower. "It's on your desk at school as we speak," he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose.

This gave Fakir pause. "What were you doing in my room?" he snapped. He heaved a huge sigh and stalked off, leaving Autor behind. "I never want to see you in there, or here of you invading my room, ever again. Understand?"

Cautious footsteps followed him. "Fakir, don't just cha-"

"No," Fakir said firmly. The second set of footsteps were instantly silenced. "I'm in no mood for you right now. Go home. Leave me alone."

* * *

By the time Fakir finally returned to his room after class and supper that evening, Autor's urgent announcement had entirely escaped his memory. He was too tired from the day's extended practice to reflect on their brief encounter. He slipped out of his jacket the moment he stepped into his room, allowing it to drop onto the floor. It was followed swiftly by his shirt and belt. He set the glass brooch from his shirt on his bedstand and fell heavily onto his bed, content to lie half-undressed for a few minutes in the relative silence. The walls dampened the distant chatter of others boys returning from supper, and the heavy drapes he kept drawn over the window blotted out what remained of the day's sunlight. He could sleep, just like this, succumbing to the ache in his legs and the now-familiar dullness gnawing at his mind.

But it would be undignified, even for him, to sleep in his clothes. Not to mention that he was reluctant to fall asleep, afraid to dream again. He would stave it off for as long as he could, but he knew that in the end he would sleep for the sake of being at least rested enough to go to class. For the time being, he would pry off his shoes, dress down to his t-shirt and shorts, and read.

Lying on his side, he relied on the bright yellow light from his bedside lamp and the same kind of adventure stories he'd read as a child to keep him reasonably lucid. In a way, he hoped that eventually he would discover the optimal level of exhaustion, one that would allow him to sleep so deeply that his mind could find no energy to waste on dreaming.

Pages and chapters and hours passed, and eventually Fakir's eyes drifted shut, the book falling open on his chest and the lamp still illuminating the room.

The dreams came soon after. Even in sleep, Fakir immediately noticed the stark difference between these dreams and the dreams of the night before. He found himself whisked through dozens of scenes. One set of surroundings would materialize only to be washed away and replaced by the next moments later. A sunset over a craggy mountain, the eaves of a wooden roof, a sun-drenched field of swaying grasses. So many moments, flashing rapidly across his sleeping mind. Not just sights, but sounds and even smells. Leather, heavy flakes of snow falling on a quiet hillside, even the elusive scent of approaching rainfall. These glimpses seemed so real, so whole, that he was startled to wake the next morning and find himself in his bedroom.

He sat up, still dazed, one hand braced on his right shoulder in anticipation of the pain he associated with waking. Outside, the clock tower played its morning tune, and by the time it had concluded he still felt no pain. Only a faint warmth spreading across his chest.

Very strange.

After setting his book aside, he hauled himself out of bed and dressed. For the first time in weeks, he felt rested enough to carefully wash up and dress himself, to comb the tangles from his hair and tie it back neatly. It was a pity that this newfound energy was wasted on a Sunday morning, but he only realized this partway into his morning routine. By that time, he was almost glad for it. He could practice however he liked, or spend the day at the library.

He could visit the lake.

The thought occurred to him abruptly while he was buttoning the yellow waistcoat he had pulled on over his shirt in place of his school jacket, and for the first time in weeks it was not followed by a wave of guilty dread. A small smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, and he hurried through the rest of his morning preparations before walking briskly out his door. The few boys awake and chatting in the hallway almost looked surprised at his emergence, though Fakir couldn't imagine why. He left them to mutter amongst themselves.

Like the river, the lake had undergone a dramatic transformation since the last biting days of lingering winter had passed. Bright sunlight and the mirrored images of shyly budding tree branches reflected on its undisturbed surface, and the air around it was alive with the sounds of singing birds and humming insects. Fakir's footsteps across the dock jutting out onto the lake's surface added a sparse, even percussion to the lake's informal song. He waited at the very end of the dock a few moments, scanning the water's surface for any signs of motion.

There was no sign of the little white duck paddling out to greet him. This was quite unusual, as she seldom strayed from the lake and the area of forest immediately surrounding it, and up to this moment had always eagerly come out to the dock to greet him. It was worrisome that she did not.

He scanned the treeline around the lake, waited, then called out. "Hey! You idiot, you had better not have gotten yourself eaten by a fox..."

He trailed off uneasily; though he spoke in jest the possibility had occurred to him many times, and he had never had to consider it seriously before. Thankfully, his call was answered by a rustling at the other side of the lake. When Ahiru did not appear, he grew uneasy again and ran from the dock, around the lake. She could be hurt, couldn't she? Yes, he thought, that was entirely possible.

Just as he reached the rustling spot of underbrush, something sprung up from the leaves and twigs and launched itself at him. Startled, he gave an undignified yelp and threw up his arms only to be tackled the next instant by...

A girl? He looked down at the head of tangled orange hair buried in his chest in abject confusion, unable to process this situation at all.

"Thank you!" The voice was familiar, though cracked with disuse. Vocal cords like an old leather belt. "Thank you, thank you. I don't- You-"

"A... Hiru?" Fakir managed, blinking stupidly down at the girls in his arms. She turned her face up to him, grinning brightly, and nodded. It was strange to see that face again, to see the changes brought about by what to him was so very little time. Her eyes no longer seemed too large for her face, her cheeks had lost some of their baby roundness. She had grown taller, her hair longer. She was almost like a grown woman.

It was this stray thought which caused him to abruptly release her and step back, his eyes directed straight up into the tree branches above. Ahiru laughed. Already her voice was growing less ragged.

"You're still kinda skittish, huh?"

"Put some clothes on, moron."

"I can't do that when I haven't got any clothes to put on, can I? And what are you calling me a moron for? I can't help it!"

Without even looking down, Fakir quickly removed his shirt and waistcoat and tossed them in Ahiru's general direction. Only the rustling of fabric indicated that she was dressing at all.

"You can look now," she said, some playful petulance in her voice. "You know, you could have just brought me some clothes."

With a small inquisitive sound, Fakir turned back to her. His shirt was just barely long enough to cover anything effectively now that her legs had grown so long. She looked gawkish in it, really, her limbs too long and fine for a body that had yet to fill out properly.

The confusion on his face must have been obvious, as she repeated herself after a moment. "You should have brought me clothes."

"Why?"

Ahiru's mouth turned down in a wide and almost comical frown. She folded her arms over her chest. "You really are thoughtless sometimes," she said. The air of annoyance evaporated almost instantly, replaced with a warm, grateful smile. "But you never stopped trying, even if I never asked and always forgave you."

That smile twisted Fakir's heart, and he could manage no reply.

"Is something wrong?" she asked hesitantly, her smile faltering. She was far more perceptive than he gave her credit for.

Fakir swallowed and forced himself to meet her eyes. "Ahiru, I didn't bring anything because I didn't expect this. This isn't my doing."

Her expression fell. "That's not possible," she said with a tone of certainty that only she could muster under these circumstances.

"The last time I wrote a story for you, there was still snow on the ground," Fakir admitted, his voice losing much of its strength the longer he spoke. "I burned every failed story in the stove in Karon's kitchen."

Realization dawned on Ahiru's face, tinged with dread and suspicion. "When did you last write, then?" she asked. He suspected she had noticed the absence of his pens and notebooks at the lakeside and not mentioned them out of courtesy.

"In February," Fakir admitted softly, eyes downcast. "I'm sorry."

She closed the distance between them and grasped his scarred hand. "Why?" she asked. He looked up into her softly smiling face. "Only you know when to write and not to write, right? It's your gift, so you know best..."

Fakir's hand tensed in her hold. "I knew you would just accept this. Like you always do."

She shook her head, still smiling. "Don't talk like that." Her smile brightened, and she set off to leave the lake, more or less dragging him behind her. "You can turn anything into gloom and doom, you know that?"

Dumbfounded, Fakir could only follow her, stunned by how utterly untroubled she was by all this. But that was just her way, wasn't it? That boundless enthusiasm and hopefulness that enabled her to save them all, and that innocence that enabled ehr to see the good in anyone, even when Fakir was certain that goodness was only imagined.

It was why he had allowed her to live as she did, a human heart in the body of an animal. Even though it might have been kinder, he could not rob her of that tender human heart as he had several others.

Forget being human.

Forget dancing.

Forget wanting.

Live the short life of an animal with no regret for time and opportunity lost.

He couldn't do that to her, and because of this he became fixated on returning her humanity.

"You're awfully quiet," she said suddenly, giving a sharp tug on his hand. She'd led him from the lake to the little hidden pool behind Karon's house. "You weren't even listening to me, were you?"

"I was thinking," Fakir replied defensively, snatching his hand away. "What were you going on about?"

Unaffected by his snotty behavior, Ahiru let herself in the backdoor of the house and motioned for him to follow. "I wanted to get dressed. And it's the last day of the month, right?"

Fakir nodded and followed, suspicious of the question. "The thirtieth of April. I didn't know you kept track of time so meticulously." He glanced around the work room, not wanting to find Karon lurking somewhere to see him creeping in the back door with a mostly naked girl.

"Well, I do!" she said. She headed for the steep stairs up to his bedroom, and he wondered just how well she knew his house after visiting only a few times. He followed, eyes on the steps the entire time. Did she have to go up first? She turned a cheeky smile down at him, but he never saw it. "The Fire Festival is tonight."

"It is," Fakir said as he emerged into his bedroom after her. The date had completely slipped his mind. "Why?"

"I want to go," she said. She was already peering into his dresser.

"With me?" he asked, stepping over to her side. "Hey. You're not wearing any more of my clothes."

She turned a playful smile up at him and shrugged. "Who else am I gonna go with? And I've never gone before, and neither have you. I think. Have you ever been?"

"Ah. No, I haven't," Fakir admitted. He took her by the shoulders and directed her away from his dresser. "I... suppose we could go. It's stupid, but we could go as a celebration, since you want to go."

"But you won't like it."

"I won't," Fakir said with a heavy sigh. "Now just stay here, okay? I'll get you something to wear."

Ahiru plopped down onto his bed, half-pouting. "Fine, but don't forget something for yourself, too."

"I meant something to wear in the meantime, and I'm not wearing one of those ridiculous, archaic costumes."

"Wear more yellow, then," Ahiru suggested cheerfully. Fakir paused, his hand still on the doorknob, and eyed her. Her smile widened. "It's a good color for you," she explained, pinching the fabric of the waistcoat he'd thrown at her. "I like it, too, so... Maybe, being friends, we have more in common now."

Fakir rolled his eyes and wordlessly pulled the door open, only to stop in his tracks again as something fell to the floor. A large envelope, pierced with a tack, had fallen from the back of his door. Autor's familiar overwrought scrawl covered one side. He could hear Ahiru hop up from the bed to peer over his shoulder as he read it.

"I am through waiting for you to return so that I can deliver this to you," the note read. "I regret that my responsibilities, even on a Sunday, make it impossible for me to wait patiently for you to return either here or to your room at the academy. Whatever you have wasted your day doing, I request that you read this immediately once you have finished. I have done you a favor and respected what I imagine you would wish by not reading it myself. Again, read this immediately."

The paper crinkled in Fakir's hand as he grasped it tightly, scowling. A favor? He had done him a favor by not reading his mail? That slime...

"Autor hasn't changed at all, has he?" Ahiru piped up, sounding rather unimpressed.

"Not in the slightest," Fakir grumbled as he haphazardly ripped the envelope open. A smaller one fell free, and he snatched it up before it could fall to the floor. It was small, the paper thin and delicate with gilded edges. At first he suspected that it might be a love letter from an especially dedicated girl, but that suspicion fled the moment he glanced at the familiar handwriting that addressed it to him. Not nearly as refined or as perfect as he remembered, but still the same. He fell silent, awestruck and deeply confused. It should not have been possible...

Ahiru peered around him. "Is something wrong? What is it?"

"A letter from Mytho," Fakir said as he turned the little envelope over in his hands. He slipped a nail under the flap and gently slit it open.

She gasped and leaned in closer, studying the letter as Fakir unfolded it. "From the Prince?"

"Yes. From the Prince, from Siegfried." He had no reason to call him Mytho anymore.

"What does it say?"

Fakir sighed and glowered at her. "Let me read it! You can read, too, can't you? Or did you forget?"

It seemed she hadn't heard him. Her gaze was fixed on the page in Fakir's hands, her eyes widening and the curious smile on her face falling.

"Fakir..."

Almost reluctantly, he looked back down at the letter as quickly read it. His expression slowly came to mirror Ahiru's.

"Fakir,

I hope that this letter finds you well, and regret that I cannot send this letter as a gesture of good will. Rather, I send it as a call to my aid, to the aid of my kingdom. I fear I must be brief.

My efforts to rebuild our kingdom in the wake of the destruction wrought by the Raven's rampage have been interrupted and in many ways undone by the emergence of a hitherto unnoticed threat. Worse, I fear that the veil between our two worlds is thinning, and that this new threat can be the only cause, and that your world has been targeted as well. It is through the exploitation of this change that I am able to send you this letter.

A difficult journey awaits me, one that I cannot make alone. For reasons I will explain in person, I beseech you to join me.

On midnight, on the night of the Fire Festival, a coach will arrive with instructions to bring you directly to the palace. If you would come to my aid, await its arrival at the clock tower at the center of town.

Sincerely,

Mytho."

Ahiru, as usual, was the first to break the silence that fell between them.

"I'm going with you."


	2. Frühlingssehnsucht

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Author's Note:_ This chapter took longer to complete than I expected, and if anyone was anticipating it I apologize for the wait. Preparations for final exams is sort of murdering me, and while writing is my escape it's difficult to find time in which to do it.

_Author's Note:_ This chapter took longer to complete than I expected, and if anyone was anticipating it I apologize for the wait. Preparations for final exams is sort of murdering me, and while writing is my escape it's difficult to find time in which to do it.

* * *

They had danced, just as Fakir had promised, he in his Sunday clothes that barely passed for anything sufficiently old fashioned, and she in a simple dress that Fakir had run next door to beg from a neighbor. He had clumsily explained that his visiting cousin had gotten her clothes stolen by a group of boys at the river when she fixed him with a questioning look, and he could only hope that she had fully accepted the explanation, as flimsy as it was. Who would believe that he had a redheaded cousin?

The dance had been worth the embarrassment, just to see her dance again. Over a year spent in the body of a duck had done her no favors where human grace was concerned, and he imagined her longer limbs and wider hips only worsened the effect. Still, she wasn't the only girl at the dance who had a new body to grow into, and very few of them had prior lives as animals to excuse their stumbling.

She had tripped, he had moved to catch her and wound up sprawled on the cobblestones while she stood over him jabbering apologies. Though it happened at least twice, he couldn't bring himself to fault her for it. He remembered being all arms and legs, clumsy and painfully self conscious. And he needed the distraction from the Prince's letter.

Ahiru was asleep now, dozing in his bedroom, and midnight growing nearer. Fakir had fled to his room at the academy, hoping for a few hours' peace in which to prepare himself for whatever it was that the promised carriage would carry him off to do. He needed his peace, his time alone to gather himself. He couldn't have that at home. He glanced down at the Lohengrin sword from his perch by the window, leaning against the corner of his bed with his little travel bag to help prop it up. Karon's voice rang in his head just as clearly as it had in his ears hours earlier, asking just what he needed the sword for. Asking where he was going with a bag on his shoulder.

Fakir had wilted under his father's gaze, explained himself as best he could. Without realizing it, he had braced himself for a swipe across his face, but the blow never came. Karon simply sank into the nearest chair, his head in his hands, his strength and resolve sapped.

'Why would you choose to do this?' he had asked. 'You've done what had to be done. You've fulfilled your purpose, gone along with that damned legend, so why?'

Fakir, speechless, had simply looked down at the floor. He felt that they both knew the answer, though neither would ever speak it.

'Go, then,' Karon had said as he rose unsteadily from his seat after several tense moments. 'I know that I could never convince you otherwise. What can I do? Shut you up in your room?'

'I can't just-'

'Go. You have my permission. You have my blessing, even if you wouldn't have asked for it. Just go.'

And go he had, his heart now heavy from guilt as well as dread, all the way to his dorm room with no thought to anyone who might consider a boy carrying a sword across the green between the two dormitories cause for alarm.

In his hand he now held a different letter, one he had held onto since receiving it over a year earlier, a morbid memento from a moment in his life he should have longed to forget. An invitation, gold ink on stiff black paper. He ran a finger over the raised lettering and frowned. Midnight at the church. In the end, the wedding invitation had proven a portent of things to come. His last peaceful compromise with Rue had been implicit, understood rather than stated. He had given her his permission, his blessing, without being asked. Despite everything. With a thin sigh, he slipped off of the windowsill and stalked to the desk to set the invitation down. He would return it to the drawer later.

The soft tap of his boot soles on the floor resounded through the room, and he found himself reminded of just how cavernous it had grown. Two beds, both too large, one vacant for seasons on end and always made up. No occasional clutter on the dresser or errant piles of clothing on the floor save for his own. There were fewer books, less of everything. He never could have imagined just how much a room could grow from the removal of just one person, but on some nights when the whole dormitory was still and quiet, when he could hear his every breath and every heartbeat as he lied in bed, he felt that the void would swallow him up.

There were times when he wished that the academy's administration would relax their standards on placing students in the exclusive top student rooms, but they were fleeting. Whenever he forced himself to consider the prospect of sharing the space with a stranger, he invariably chose to be alone. Even now, months upon months later, he had no proper friends at school, no one he could tolerate sharing his space with. Not even Autor counted, really. He suffered the other boy's presence in his life out of necessity more than he valued his company.

Fakir would never fully admit it to himself, but he had never properly learned to make friends. The reputation he had worked so hard to build in previous years hardly helped.

He took two steps up onto the small area at the end of their room set aside for practice and ran a gloved hand along the barre. After a long moment of contemplation, he gripped it and tested the stiffness of his boots against the tiled floor before slowly, clumsily lifting himself up onto the tips of his toes as he hadn't done in several years. The leather was just stiff enough to allow the maneuver, but years out of practice and a lack of proper shoes made maintaining the position a trial. He went on practicing, dancing with himself, spending as little time as possible en pointe.

It was too much like a vigil. A young knight to be staving off sleep in an empty, sacred place, performing a solitary ritual.

Hours slipped by as Fakir practiced. In his concentration on his solitary dance, he had become ignorant of the passage of time, so unaware of his surroundings that he nearly leapt out of his boots when something rapped against his window. He spun around, and for the briefest of moments expected to see a raven perched on the sill, waiting. Instead, he found what was once a duck.

"What do you think you're doing?" he snapped, racing over to the window to open it and allow the precariously perched girl to crawl into the room. Holding her firmly by the shoulders, he directed her far from the open window. "You could have fallen and snapped your stupid neck."

Ahiru seemed totally unfazed by the frantic shaking Fakir was giving her shoulders, only grinning sheepishly up at him, as if she were proud to have climbed the roof in the first place and being caught was an imperfect but acceptable outcome.

"I can't come into the boys' dormitory, right?" she said once he'd stopped rattling her. "And if I threw stones up, I might miss and wake somebody else."

"You probably woke the whole building scrambling up however you did," Fakir hissed.

"Well, it's nearly midnight," Ahiru said. Fakir suspected she brought it up to shift the topic of conversation from her scheme, but a glance at the clock on his bedside table proved her point. They had only fifteen minutes to reach the clock tower.

"Damn it," he muttered, scrambling for his bag and sword. He shouldered his bag and hooked his sword to his belt before stalking to the door. "Did you have to climb? You could have saved time and just thrown a rock."

Ahiru cringed and followed him. "I didn't wanna wake anybody! And if I woke somebody else, I'd be caught, and then I might get in trouble for being here!"

The door produced a sad little squeak as Fakir pulled it open and turned to her with his most unimpressed expression. "I have to walk out of this building with you in tow anyway. You may have made more trouble just by showing up, and you could have been badly hurt. Don't make it worse by squawking and drawing attention to us."

To Fakir's satisfaction, Ahiru fell silent and they were able to slip out into the hallway. Fakir was relieved to see no light filtering from under the doors lining the corridor. They had managed not to wake a single person, or at least not anyone who cared enough to get out of bed.

They rushed down the hall, down the stairs and stairs and stairs - dear God, he did not recall there being so many, many stairs - to the front door of the dormitory. Fakir heaved an enormous sigh of relief as he shut it behind him.

"Never, ever do anything like that again," he said, leaning heavily against the door. A second later, he pushed off and hurried off toward the campus gate. He couldn't allow himself to forget their appointment, that they were needed, just to chastise Ahiru a little longer. He could hear her following, her footsteps clumsy but quick. Perhaps the shoes he had found her were too large after all.

For all Fakir's rushing and cursing his own absentmindedness, they reached the clock tower with ample time to spend anxiously awaiting their carriage. Fakir chose to wait with his back against the wall of the tower, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on the road. As the minutes passed, Ahiru's pacing grew more spirited and irritating.

"They make toe shoes big enough for boys, you know," she said suddenly, stopping abruptly in her pacing and facing Fakir head-on. Fakir blanched.

"I was aware of that," he said after a moment. In his mind, he could reasonably assume that she had brought it up entirely at random, but he knew that that was unlikely, and he didn't really expect that to be the case.

"You could get some," Ahiru offered. She shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "Your balance must be really good to go without them, even-"

"I don't want any," Fakir said curtly. It was best to cut her off rather than let her prattle on. She wilted, toeing the stones of the road with her too-large shoe. Yes, they were too big for her. He could see the gap between the tongue and her stocking.

Shortly after the conversation died an abrupt but necessary death, the clock atop the tower chimed once to signal the midnight hour. Fakir looked up and down the street, his unease growing with each moment that passed without the arrival of the carriage. A sharp gasp behind him caused him to turn back to Ahiru, who had worked herself into a frenzy.

"Look, look!" she called ecstatically, practically jumping in place. Fakir followed her gaze up to the top of the tower, and his mouth fell open. He couldn't help but feel foolish for having expected anything so mundane as a horse-drawn carriage.

High above them, at the very top of the tower, a carriage hung suspended in the air, a single bright lantern dangling from its side making it all the more visible to those on the ground below. Before he could properly formulate any sort of plan by which to reach a carriage several stories above their heads, he found himself being dragged along again, stumbling after Ahiru as she bolted for the door. To his great surprise, it swung open, and soon they were rushing up the winding staircase to the platform at the top of the tower, taking the steps two at a time in places and panting half the way up.

They burst onto the little balcony not two minutes later, thoroughly out of breath. Only now did Fakir realize his lack of forethought in spending the past couple hours dancing rather than sleeping. He glances at Ahiru to see her grinning triumphantly, and then at the carriage.

"No driver," he observed dryly. He swallowed, all too aware of how dry his mouth and throat had grown in the mad dash up the steps.

Ahiru only shrugged, gently took his hand, and led him to the edge of the balcony. "It doesn't need one, right?"

As if on cue, the carriage's door popped open, and a small ramp slid out from the floor inside to bridge the gap between the carriage and the top of the balcony's railing. Not wanting to waste any more time, Fakir gingerly stepped onto the ramp and offered Ahiru a hand up. As expected, the door closed quietly behind them once they were both safely inside.

The interior of the carriage was upholstered and carpeted in warm, golden colors, and the seats were spacious and looked invitingly soft. Fakir remained silent despite his very sudden desire to simply collapse onto one of the padded benched, but Ahiru let out another awe-struck gasp upon taking it all in. In case Fakir had any doubts that she had only matured physically.

"It's so pretty," she said with a sigh.

Fakir only nodded in reply, then sunk heavily into one of the benches. His feet ached, his legs ached, his entire being ached and longed to be idle and sleep for just a short while. Luckily, the seats were just as soft as they appeared, and quite conducive to sleeping. Ahiru remained mercifully silent, save for a soft gasp of surprise when the carriage started off, and before long Fakir had drifted peacefully and easily to sleep.

Some time later, Fakir was awakened by a cold breeze rushing over his body. He shivered on the bench for a minute or so, only half aware of the situation. Half of his mind was in his room at the academy, the window standing open while a half-dressed figure at the window watched the birds with no regard for all the hard work their stove did. As he slowly came fully awake, he realized that this could not possibly be the case, and slowly opened his eyes.

The source of the draft became apparent immediately. The door to the carriage was wind open, Ahiru standing just inside the carriage with the most delighted expression on her face as the breeze caused her long skirt to ripple around her legs. Fakir got groggily to his feet and placed a hand on the door, fully intent on slamming it shut until his eyes wandered to the view outside the carriage.

An endless expanse of water, rippling and cresting with tiny waves, stretched out before them against a peach-colored horizon. He froze in place, peering around the door and simply watching, totally numb to the chill air. All he felt was an intangible something in the very center of his abdomen, something that tugged and nagged, then let go and fell free, leaving him feeling oddly contented and spellbound at the same time.

He must have gawked rather shamelessly. Ahiru gave a light tug on his sleeve. "What's the matter?," she asked. " You got real quiet, and didn't even answer me."

Fakir didn't even look down at her, only shook his head in minor annoyance at himself and kept looking forward. "I've never seen the ocean before," he admitted softly.

For the first time, Fakir could properly reflect on just how very, very small his world was. He had always had his home, his neighborhood, the school, the woods around the town. That world had seemed so spacious to him as a child, so vast and all-encompassing. Running an errand to the butcher's shop across town for a special order at Christmastime had felt a little like an adventure to him at ten, and the woods had held at least some measure of mystery even after he'd enrolled at the academy. This, though, was a different thing entirely. This was something that, until that moment, he had at least unconsciously always assumed existed only in books.

"It is pretty, isn't it?" Ahiru said with a little laugh. Fakir imagined it was directed at his slack-jawed staring. "I don't think I've ever seen so much water in one place."

At this observation, Fakir couldn't help but laugh himself out of his own wistful musings. She really was very simple at times, an innocent little duckling at heart. Where Fakir saw a new world and an affirmation of his sheltered life, she saw a lot of water. And that was all.

For all her innocence, Ahiru did notice that he was laughing at her, and screwed her face up accordingly. "Just what's funny about what I said?" she asked with an exaggerated pout.

"It's nothing," Fakir said, shaking his head. He continued to look out at the ocean, trying to view as she did. He couldn't, of course. "Nothing is funny about it."

Seemingly satisfied with that response, she turned her attention back out onto the water, as did Fakir. They watched the ocean roll by in silence for some time longer before they both began to shiver in the cool wind, and Fakir decided without one word of announcement that it was time to close the door.

The air around them warmed immediately after the door closed, and within moments it was as if there had never been a draft at all. The sudden shift from chill breeze to enveloping warmth made Fakir drowsy all over again, and he fell onto one of the benches, joined a moment later by Ahiru. It was only then that he looked down at his side and realized that his sword had been unfastened from his belt and set in one of the corners with his bag. He could chastise her for taking his sword off of him later; he knew she had meant well. For now, sleep called him again. He could only hope that it would be as peaceful and dreamless as his last nap.

When next he awoke, it was without incident or unwelcome interruption. He simply stirred, sat up, stretched, and blinked his sandy eyes against the dim lighting within the carriage. His contented mood was immediately shattered by a harsh, strangled whisper.

"Fakir..." Ahiru murmured, her face practically pressed against the little window in the carriage door.

Instantly awake, Fakir leapt up from his seat and walked to her side. "What is it?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, a slight tremor in her voice as she raised a finger to the glass. "Just... watch. See for yourself."

With some reluctance, Fakir peered out the tiny window at the vast plain of fog-obscured white that stretched out beyond his sight. Wisps of fog and whirls of snow whisked past the glass, obscuring the entire landscape and anything not within the range of the lantern's limited glow. He had just begun to relax again, assuming that she had been startled by the sudden change in surroundings, when a vague form, obscured by the mist and snow, glided past the carriage. He stiffened and watched as it made another pass around the carriage, closer this time. The long shadow drew nearer on each pass, and on the third Fakir could make out the vaguest hint of a blue spark that the head of it.

He broke away from Ahiru's side and dove for his sword just as the carriage was rocked by an unseen blow. Ahiru shrieked, the lantern died, and the carriage itself dropped suddenly and dramatically, further disorienting him. In the darkness, he managed to find the hilt of his sword. He fastened the scabbard to his belt as an afterthought.

"Are you all right?" he asked the darkness, his voice too frantic for his liking.

"I'm okay," Ahiru replied. He could hear her stand, and hear that the tremor in her voice had disappeared. "I can't see so well, though."

Another harsh blow rattled the carriage. Both of them managed to remain standing even as the carriage lost altitude again. Fakir made his way to the window as the entire carriage rattled and shook around him and that unnameable thing shrieked outside. It was an awful sound, intermittent but piercing. Outside, sunlight filtered through the thinning mist, and he could make out the barest outlines of hills and snow-obscured grids that could be farm fields.

As expected, the creature made another pass by the door, so close now that Fakir could clearly make it out. It was long, lithe, white, and scaled. And just as he recognized the dragon's shape, it's blazing blue eyes recognized him, and it struck for the carriage door, it's jaws cracked open to reveal a mouth full of icicle teeth.

Ahiru screamed again as the carriage's outer wall gave way, and Fakir staggered back into the cabin. With hardly a thought, he lunged forward the instant the creature's face was within his range and drove his sword into one of those unnaturally glowing eyes.

It was such a shock to him when it neither cried out in pain nor bled. A torrent of icy water sprayed forth from its ruptured eye, soaking the cabin and Fakir, and the beast fell away in silence, spiralling down to the ground that drew nearer with every passing second.

Guided by the cold white sunlight pouring in through the carriage's ruined wall, Fakir rushed to Ahiru's side and pulled her into one of the corners between a seat and the remaining sturdy walls, his body forming an improvised third wall between her and whatever might be flung their way upon landing.

The sunlight rapidly grew brighter, warmer on his back, as the shuddering carriage half-fell, half-glided nearer to the ground. The whole thing bounced and thrashed them about once more before finally coming to a screeching, wheel-destroying halt. Fakir waited in the silence that followed for another shriek from that creature, but it never came. Instead, several sets of heavy footsteps and voices approached the ruined carriage. The look on Ahiru's face was his first indicator that they were not doomed yet.

"Rue!" she exclaimed, beaming. Fakir turned to see three armored men clustered around the gaping hole in the carriage's side, and Rue several yards away.

One of the men cleared his throat loudly and gestured to Fakir, beckoning to him. "Have you brought the letter as proof of your summons?" he asked, his incredulous voice ringing rather hollowly behind the closed visor of his helmet.

It took a moment for Fakir to realize just what was being asked of him, and once he'd realized he feared that his puzzled expression had already given them the answer they didn't want. Then, in a moment of uncharacteristic quick thinking, he raised the sword still grasped in his hand.

"I've brought this," he replied clearly, and to his surprise the men stepped back.

"And that is more than enough," a familiar voice said from beside one of the men. Just out of his direct line of sight stood Siegfried, wearing the same tiny smile he had worn when he had still been acclimating himself to the expression.


	3. O diese Sonne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** I apologize for the long break in chapters. It won't happen again, if it can be helped. Please enjoy the story and forgive my meatspace-related absences as best you can.

**Author's Note:** I apologize for the long break in chapters. It won't happen again, if it can be helped. Please enjoy the story and forgive my meatspace-related absences as best you can.

* * *

At the very core of his heart, Autor knew that he would always resent Fakir just the littlest bit. The passage of time had dulled the sense of betrayal he felt at watching Fakir be chosen over him as an inheritor of Drosselmeyer's powers - dulled, but not eliminated - but there was a certain something about Fakir that Autor found intolerable. His constructed public image as a Byronic figure was all but transparent to Autor by now. It was little more than a thin veil over an untidy pile of insecurities and a lingering, childish sense of romantic idealism he insulated and protected under a flimsy veneer of cynicism. Those idealistic tendencies had only grown more frustrating in recent months, culminating in Fakir's absurd decision to retire from his rightful position as the writer of the town's story. He was untrustworthy, imprecise, and in Autor's opinion altogether unsuited to the control of anything.

So, of course, he had read the letter that spontaneously appeared in Fakir's room one early morning long before delivery of any student mail ever took place. He did not make a habit of reading Fakir's correspondences, but he recognized Mytho's handwriting in the addressed portion almost immediately. The dull-eyed boy's neat if unusual handwriting stood out among the music theory essays he had spent afternoons stooped over as an assistant to the instructor. Just as immediately, he had decided to open the letter and confirm or disprove his assumption that nothing good could come of a letter from what was essentially an entirely different world. As was often the case, he had been quite correct.

Telling Fakir was out of the question. It had been easy to open and reseal the envelope, and by the time he'd tacked the little packet to Fakir's door he scarcely cared whether Fakir believed he hadn't read it. He could deal with Fakir's childish anger later, when he finally deigned to arrive. Autor glanced at his watch for the fourth time in the past five minutes and wondered just how little Fakir cared to be punctual for something so dire. He'd arrived fifteen minutes early, and as the hands on his watch proceeded on to the midnight hour he began to doubt Fakir would show up at all.

Perhaps that was for the best. He could go alone; he would think of some way to get there once the coach arrived. If the coachman hadn't been given a proper description of Fakir, perhaps he could impersonate him long enough to arrive at the coach's destination. Whether that sort of deception were necessary or not, he would get there. Indeed, since he had discovered the letter his one most powerful desire had been to travel to Mytho's kingdom. As much as he hated to admit similarity to Fakir, he understood that this was a purely base, romantic desire. If he did not believe Rue's safety to be at stake, his interest would have been purely... academic. As it was, he was instead fidgeting at the foot of the clock tower, willing the hands of his watch to move.

What he expected to accomplish there that Fakir could not, he had no idea. Despite Autor's dedication and careful planning, Fakir had been chosen as the vessel for Drosselmeyer's powers. Why else would anyone want the fool's help, especially in such a dire situation? His personality hardly lent itself to problem solving.

He pulled the jacket of his uniform closer about him as a sudden brisk gust of wind whistled around the clock tower and raked over him. As the gust whipped up the thin layer of dust over the cobbles down the street, a blazingly bright white light flashed around Autor, momentarily stealing his sight. He recoiled, threw his arm across his eyes, and squinted perplexedly out at the strange scene. It was as though God had trained an immense spotlight on the tower, far brighter than noontime in July and notably lacking sunlight's characteristic warmth. He found himself shuddering as he tried to locate the source of the light.

His search was swiftly interrupted by the gentle call of a voice that enveloped and surrounded him just as the light did. Warm where the light was cold, inviting and tender.

"You should not despair."

* * *

The scene that greeted Fakir and Ahiru as they stepped down from the ruined carriage and onto the sun-warmed stones that made up the tower's uppermost floor was an incredible contrast to the frigid, sleet-choked air that had swirled around the dragon. The attention of every stranger present remained fixed on Fakir for several tense moments as he stood outside the wreck and allowed the sun to warm his soaked body, their gazes drifting periodically to the sword in his hand. There was such silence following his announcement that he had brought the sword as proof of his identity that he nearly lept out of his waterlogged boots when Ahiru shrieked.

"Rue!" she cried as she broke into a clumsy run, her ecstatic movements flinging droplets of chilly water into the air.

Fakir grimaced as he watched her pull a very startled Rue into a wet embrace, before a soft laugh at his side seized his attention. The Prince - or was he a king, now? - had moved to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder and eye to eye with Fakir now that his body had finally begun to grow again. His gaze wasn't on Fakir, but on the girls, and for a brief moment Fakir found himself belatedly awe-struck by the life and warmth in Mytho's face, at simply seeing his face again at all. When Mytho finally turned to him, still smiling, Fakir flinched. He felt as though he'd been caught at something.

"She has hardly changed, her body aside," the Prince observed. Realization flashed across his features, his eyes widening before he gave a shallow but gracious bow. "Welcome. We are honored and grateful that you have come to us in our time of need. The both of you."

The gathered soldiers followed their Prince's example and Fakir, not wanting to look foolish or arrogant, bowed just a bit deeper. "I- We wouldn't have considered doing otherwise, Prince."

"What a marvel. He's learned to speak with some consideration." Rue, the front of her long blue gown thoroughly dampened by Ahiru's thoughtless affections, strode over with the smaller girl in tow. A smile played on her lips despite the remark, and her tone was light and warm. Ahiru fixed Fakir with an expectant, subtly pleading look as she stood at Rue's side. He imagined she hoped he wouldn't use Rue's remark as an excuse to start an argument. Luckily, Rue was the last thing on his mind.

"I know how, I just don't always choose to," he replied. He did not spare a bow for Rue, and as he expected she didn't bother to offer any other greeting.

The Prince, seemingly not bothered by the tense moment, crossed between Fakir and Rue to take Ahiru's hand, bow as he had to Fakir, and kiss it. "Welcome, Princess."

A strangled, nasal laugh escaped Ahiru's mouth as she brought her free hand up to cover her beet red face. "Thank you! I mean. I'm not really a Princess anymore or anything, I'm just..." She trailed off thoughtfully as Fakir and the others looked on in amusement, then let her hand fall to her side and smiled. "Just a girl, now," she finished softly.

The Prince returned the smile and nodded. "Yes. But you are no less welcome here, and we will always be grateful to you."

"You don't- I mean-" Ahiru sputtered pointlessly for a few seconds, and Fakir could almost feel himself sinking into the flagstones in vicarious embarrassment. Then he saw her eyes widen as she peered over the Prince's shoulder. "What... what is that?" The humor and playfulness had drained from her voice.

Fakir followed her pointed finger, looking out beyond the castle's tower for the first time since they had crashed onto it. Beyond the tower lay the courtyards and the castle's outer curtain, and beyond that a small city of shingled roofs sprawling out from the base of the hill, and even further out, beyond the city's wall, distant patches of brown beside thatched cottages where farmers prepared their fields. Fakir's breath left him when he realized that the entire scene disappeared into white shrouded in twilight darkness. It was as if the world itself were divided between day and night, summer and midwinter, along a stark and crisp border that surrounded the city and outlying fields. Fakir found himself repeating Ahiru's question.

"A barrier against our encroaching enemy," the Prince intoned as he turned to regard the border. It gave Fakir a slight dissonant chill to hear Mytho's voice speak with such dour certainty. The Prince's mouth had set itself into a hard, thin line. Rue moved to stand beside him, putting a hand on his arm. "Castle Edelstein and the surrounding city is one of the last homes of summertime in all of Feeland."

For Fakir, this answer only raised more questions, like just what he was expected to do to remedy whatever had plunged the majority of the Story's world into eternal winter. They could ask him to write, he supposed, but that would not have required him to leave home. He cast a questioning glance at the Prince, not yet willing to speak up and make himself appear ignorant or insolent. Rue noticed him looking over before Mytho did, and raised an eyebrow at him. He frowned, and she pointedly looked away.

"I'm sorry," Mytho said, his expression softening. "You've traveled a long way and barely arrived in one piece. I shouldn't burden you with that attitude when so much can be explained once you've rested."

A small smile on his lips, Mytho turned to descend the stone stairs that wound around the tower. Fakir saw Rue scowl as his arm slipped from her light grasp. He and Ahiru followed the couple closely, Ahiru preceded and followed by a pair of soldiers Fakir assumed had decided that she needed an escort down the long, winding set of stairs. Small metal rings bolted to the wall at regular intervals made up for the absence of a hand rail. Almost. As they approached the courtyard below, Fakir became increasingly aware of the sounds of chatter and music wafting up the stairs. He hazarded a glance over the edge of the stairs and saw, to his surprise, that people had begun to file in through the castle's main gate by the dozens. Every last person fit enough to do so carried at least a basket or a box, while some pulled small carts laden with barrels and sacks. He looked around at the bustling, ever-growing crowd as they were led across the courtyard.

"Is it a market day?" he heard Ahiru ask behind him, hopefully.

"A celebration, actually," Rue replied from her place at Mytho's side. "It is the first of May here, regardless of our current troubles, and a party at the castle is customary even if it's a humble one."

"This is your idea of humble?" Fakir asked, mostly under his breath, as he continued to take a mental inventory of the sacks, baskets, and barrels. Ahiru elbowed him sharply but discretely.

Two of the soldiers rushed ahead of them as they neared the opposite side of the courtyard, holding open the doors to the keep. The air inside was cool, dry, and earthy. It smelled a bit like an old home that had only recently been lived in again. He shivered a bit, now out of the warm sun and still in his damp clothes. Ahiru didn't appear as bothered.

Mytho paused and turned to them, that same warm smile on his face. "I'm sure you would like to rest and change your clothes," he said. "I can't imagine you slept well during your journey, and there's a busy evening ahead. The princess and I have preparations to attend to, so please allow our escorts to show you to your temporary quarters."

"Thank you," Fakir said with a small nod. Ahiru's voice joined his, just as stilted and awkward. He wondered if the Prince made a special effort to speak in such a way.

It was at that point that he and Ahiru parted ways, each led up to the second floor of the keep, then down separate passages to the rooms that had been prepared for them. Fakir's room was located at the very end of the corridor. The guard produced a great ring of keys from a pouch on his belt and unlocked the great wooden door, holding it open for Fakir. Not even looking into the room, Fakir held out his hand to the guard.

"I would like the key to my room," he said, fatigue wearing his nerves thin as the opportunity to sleep grew nearer. The guard pulled the key free from the locked, speedily removed it from the ring, and set it in Fakir's hand without speaking a word. Fakir scowled. "You are allowed to talk, you know."

The guard started and bowed his head deeply. "I apologize, sir, I didn't want to speak out of turn."

Fakir cocked an eyebrow at the man's reaction, incredulous. Though he was hardly a little boy anymore (and would defend that fact) the only people who called him 'sir' were either making fun of him or selling him something. To make matters even stranger, the man was obviously several years his senior. He decided that he was in no mood to argue.

"Leave me in peace," he said. The man looked almost relieved as Fakir shut the door in his face.

Fakir took one glance at the lushly dressed bed and suddenly recalled his restless night in the carriage. A fresh set of clothes sat neatly folded in a chair beside the bed, but he barely noticed them. He stripped to his shorts and undershirt, tossed the key onto the chair, and slipped under the heavy quilt that topped the bed. He drifted to sleep almost immediately despite the sunlight streaming through the window.

The clothes that had been left out for him turned out to be much more than a replacement for the simple and functional clothes he had chosen for the trip. He stood before the tall mirror in his room, having spent the past half hour since being roused from his sleep by that timid trying to dress himself properly. He had been offered assistance, but had refused it. He knew perfectly well how to dress himself.

No, he didn't need any help; he had dressed himself in more complicated costumes for performances many times. The only problem was the nagging feeling that no matter how he arranged himself, he looked comically out of place in the clothes that had been selected for him. The deep blue surcoat embroidered with leafy patterns in silver passing at the hems looked strange enough on him, but the brilliantly red cape added a whole new layer of inappropriateness. He turned to one side and frowned again. It was too bright, too eye-catching, too...

It looked like a hero's costume. That had been his first thought upon seeing himself in the mirror. He so seldom danced or played the part of a hero, and even in daily life gravitated toward muted tones with the exception of his favorite blue shirt and that absurd waistcoat.

He sighed to himself in annoyance just as the door opened behind him, and whirled around, trying to not look too startled. The door closed, and Mytho stood before it looking every bit the part of a fairy tale prince. The golden circlet resting lightly on his head topped off an ensemble of white and pale blue. Fakir thought he looked almost otherworldly, with his snow white hair that matched his hose and sleeves. He practically glowed against the age-darkened wood of the door.

"The other guests are growing restless, you know," the Prince pointed out, effectively jarring Fakir from his mental wandering. He smiled teasingly. "No one wants to begin without our guests of honor, but everyone is hungry."

Fakir scoffed and turned back to the mirror, his eyes off the glass as he looked down to more speedily undo the brooch holding his cape in place. "Tell them to wait a bit longer," he said, fumbling with the clasp. "I'm going to change into my own clothes."

"These are yours, though."

Fakir's eyes widened, his hands freezing in place as Mytho reached around his shoulders to still them. After a moment of held breath he let his hands fall away, allowing Mytho to straighten the brooch and re-pin his cape.

"They don't suit me," Fakir said, stepping away once Mytho had smoothed the cape over his shoulders. Somehow, he was hardly surprised that the Prince had yet to puzzle out the tacit concept of personal space. To his surprise, the other boy stifled a small laugh. He cast a withering look at the Prince, no longer so concerned with insolence or due respect.

"Ahiru said the same thing," Mytho said, clearly not fazed by Fakir's glowering. The smile remained, genuine and playful, and Fakir felt his annoyance at being laughed at fade. After so many years with no heart, Mytho deserved to laugh even if it was at his expense.

Without another word said between them, Fakir allowed the Prince to lead him to the castle's great hall, where their arrival was heralded from the minstrel's gallery over the huge arched doors and greeted with raucous applause from the scores upon scores of guests packed into the enormous room. At the very end of the hall, Ahiru sat beside Rue at the center of a long table raised up on the dais. Looking every bit as nervous as Fakir felt. Neither of them had attended such a lavish party before, and being the center of attention did nothing to calm Fakir's nerves as he was led to the table's center and seated beside the Prince, who in turn sat beside his princess.

No grand speech preceded the feast; it simply began in earnest the moment the Prince and his guests of honor had seated themselves. Fakir had no sooner settled into his chair than a platter of sliced roasted beef passed directly under his nose, carried by a servant and already somewhat picked over by the other guests. He let it pass by out of sheer surprise, and not a moment later found his stomach snarling in want of it. He had, after all, not had a bite to eat since supper the night before. The next platter didn't escape him so easily, and he speared a generous serving of roasted chicken for himself with the little knife beside his plate. Mytho picked a wing from the edge of the platter with his fingers and ate it immediately and with great relish. It brought a faint smile to Fakir's face to see him enjoy his food, when not long ago he could have been fed entirely on boiled cabbage and saltwater and voiced no complaint.

The chatter around them grew louder and more boisterous as the evening wore on, and in time even Fakir began to relax. He suspected the party's increasingly informal tone was due largely to the deep red wine poured liberally from pitchers at every table. He had watched Mytho steadily drain two glasses of the stuff with his meal, while Rue still nursed the first and Ahiru, sipping water with her fish, hadn't been offered any at all. Fakir had accepted a single serving of the stuff out of courtesy, and finally reached for it when he unexpectedly bit into an impressively undercooked clove of garlic hidden in his food. He downed the entire cup without so much as a thought, eager to just get the bitter burn off his tongue, and soon felt a different sort of burn as heat crept onto his cheeks. He very seldom drank, even on holidays, and even then he just sipped on beer.

"You'll be embarrassingly drunk in no time if you keep treating it like it's water," Rue said, not even looking over at him as she daintily cut a spear of white asparagus into bite-sized pieces. Fakir scoffed.

After the first cup, Fakir took the wine more slowly. It was good, a quality he had always been somewhat reluctant to grant alcohol. He had always found beer and what little wine he had tasted up to that point to be unpleasantly bitter, and even in his worst moods he never felt the need to drink it for anything but its taste. This was different, heavy and sweet. Soon words flowed freely from his mouth and he smiled with surprising ease. It made up for the mild nausea quite nicely.

In the midst of a rambling story about a performance gone wrong, Fakir's expressive hands managed to swat Mytho's cup over, sending wine flooding over the table. He got up hurriedly, his face flaming as he leaned over Mytho's plate to mop up the spill before it went cascading over the table's edge.

The next moment passed as if time had slowed to a crawl. A single shriek rang out at the far end of the hall, rising to a crescendo as others joined it. Fakir looked up just in time to see a cloaked figure standing in the minstrel's gallery. A hand grabbed his cape from behind and pain flared in his chest, stealing his breath away. His next breath came as a whistling wheeze. The only indication of the cause of his agony was a tuft of white standing out against the blue of his coat. He fainted just as he recognized the fletching, vaguely aware of continued screams and hands pawing at him as he crumpled to the floor.


	4. Ja nuls homs pris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note:** The first thing you may notice about this chapter is that the title is not in German. That's partly because I derive my titles from the songs that inspired me as I wrote them. It's usually the tone/context of the song in varying ratios rather than the title, and sometimes it's only tone that I rely on. The songs are usually from German opera or lieder, but sometimes not.

**Author's Note:** The first thing you may notice about this chapter is that the title is not in German. That's partly because I derive my titles from the songs that inspired me as I wrote them. It's usually the tone/context of the song in varying ratios rather than the title, and sometimes it's only tone that I rely on. The songs are usually from German opera or lieder, but sometimes not.

* * *

Midnight had come and gone twice now, and neither Karon nor anyone he had asked at the academy or the town itself had seen or heard from Fakir. With children Fakir's age disappearing at an alarming rate, the news that Fakir had gone missing had spread like a spark through a drought-dried field within half a day, engulfing the whole of their neighborhood and half the town in gossip and chatter. As far as the rest of the town was concerned, having not seen the letter, Fakir was the first boy to have disappeared under these circumstances. That was, of course, until poor Mrs. Vonnegut had come shrieking out of her house, declaring that her own son had been taken in the night. News of that outburst had reached Karon by way of Mrs. Cohen, the neighborhood's most accomplished gossip, just as he was returning home for a uniquely lonely supper.

Nearly twelve hours had passed since then, and Karon had been wide awake for every strike of the kitchen's clock. Somehow he had found it easier to sleep the night before while Fakir waited at the clock tower. At least then he had known where the boy was, could go to bring him home if he grew impatient. Maybe he should have done exactly that and nipped this madness in the bud, Fakir's protests be damned. He drummed his fingers around the cup in his hands and watched the stars slowly dim in the gathering daylight.

It was at times like these, staring out the kitchen window in the pre-dawn hours of the morning and holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold without him so much as sipping at it, that he wondered if he truly could do nothing but ill for that boy. Fakir had come to him broken and distant, a silent shadow of the bright-eyed little boy he had watched his cousin raise. He'd only been able to coax a smile out of him by telling him the Knight's legend, by giving him the book that Drosselmeyer had spun out of that story. His connection to the legend and the book had given Fakir a sense of pride and purpose, one so strong and so sustaining that when Fakir's destiny had finally caught up to them in the form of a boy collapsed on the street, Karon had been only relieved and happy that Fakir had so immediately and enthusiastically embraced his role as Mytho's protector. He had opened up so dramatically; he had smiled, and laughed, and done more than read alone in the house all day. Mytho's placid, thoughtless kindness had provided a shelter from Fakir's troubled mind by simply giving him a reason for living.

Karon had seen nothing wrong with that, not for the first couple years. It was only when the damage of this indulgence had been done, when Fakir had pulled into himself again, grown angrier and colder, all for the sake of better protecting the Prince. What does an eight year old really know about protecting anyone?

He had hoped, when Mytho finally returned to the Story, that Fakir would flourish after being relieved of his responsibility. Initially, that had appeared to be the case. Fakir had been productive, talkative, confident. As with all positive developments in Fakir's life, that didn't last. His enthusiasm began to wind down by the next year, having enjoyed a swift boost that for whatever reason could not sustain itself. He grew distant again, not angry but listless and aimless. Karon suspected, though he was loath to admit it, that Fakir had never truly learned to function in any role other than that of the Knight and, being nearly grown as he was, could not retrain himself to live as a normal boy. Perhaps that was why he had argued so heatedly for his right to leave why he had stormed out of the house to go God only knew where and may never return.

* * *

All because he had been unable to predict what his inaction would cause.

* * *

Consciousness came and went several times from the moment the bolt pierced Fakir's lung to the moment he finally became fully aware of the world around him. His memory of those brief flashes of sound, sight, and feeling was all but lost. He recalled phrases sans their context, the sharp sound of cloth tearing divorced of any image or sensation to accompany it, and brief but blinding pain. Now, as his breath quickened and the drug-gummed gears in his head finally began to turn, he felt barely any pain at all. The dull, tight ache in his chest assured him that he was quite alive, but caused him no great discomfort. He flexed his fingers in the thin sheets tucked around him and, having discerned that he was safely and comfortably put to bed, found himself reluctant to open his eyes and fully wake.

Eventually, though, an odd scent – something akin to a cross between damp moss and incense – caught his attention. He blinked blearily up at the white canopy over his bed and turned his head as best his could in the direction of the smell, only to have his gaze met by Mytho's, the Prince's honey brown eyes sparkling and all but welling over in relief. He found himself caught in that tender gaze, immobilized as much by a look as by the promise of almost certain agony if he tried to move too much.

"Good morning," the Prince said softly, a warm smile narrowing his round eyes and making the glisten in them even more pronounced. The urge to reach out for him fled the moment Mytho say back into the little chair at Fakir's bedside. It probably would have been a bad idea anyway, all things considered.

Instead, he turned to the darkened window on the other side of his bed, frowning. "You call this morning?" he said, shocked at the weak, raspy quality of his voice and the way his chest tightened and stung. A light touch on his shoulder told him that his discomfort hadn't gone unnoticed. He turned onto his back obediently, staring up at the canopy. His gaze wandered to the side, to Mytho and to the little censer on the table beside his bed. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Briefly, once I was confident that you would be all right," Mytho said, his hand leaving Fakir's shoulder. Fakir doubted that Mytho had ever felt truly confident that he would survive; the unmasked relief on his face made that clear. Mytho could put on a brave front with words all he liked, but his honest face would always betray him.

"Hmph. You should get some sleep. I'll be-" The sound of glass on ceramic cut him off, and he turned in time to see Mytho pouring something from a pitcher into a large stoneware cup. The Prince looked... irritated.

"I have slept," Mytho said, his tone uncharacteristically terse. He held the cup out for Fakir and waited a moment for him to prop himself up on the cushions behind him. "It's fault this has happened to you. Let me ease my conscience by caring for you for a change."

Fakir accepted the cup and looked down into it, his frown reflected back at him by the liquid. He'd thought that it must be water, but it had a strong fermented scent to it, and against the grey of the cup appeared almost silvery at the surface. "You can't say it's your fault," he said. He wasn't sure if he was trying to make a point or buying himself time in which he didn't have to drink whatever was in the cup. "Neither of us could have predicted it, and I came here willingly. It isn't your fault someone decided to kill me."

Somewhere down the hall, a door closed loudly. The sound carried perfectly through the long corridor and into the silent room. Mytho set the pitcher down and took a deep breath. It reminded Fakir of the way he always calmed himself and shifted into character before making his entrance in the school's performances. It wasn't an association that he liked, and the stony expression that came over Mytho's face only strengthened it.

"The attempt was on my life, not yours," he said. "If you hadn't stood at that moment, I would have been struck in the throat. I would not have survived, as you have."

Fakir's face fell. Somehow, the more obvious scenario had not occurred to him. The thought that he had managed to save Mytho's life by getting clumsily, embarrassingly drunk was astounding and, frankly, quite terrifying. He'd been struck speechless.

"Thank you," Mytho said after a long moment, the princely persona he affected falling away and leaving a small, sad smile behind.

Fakir noticed that Mytho's gaze had wandered, and was now fixed directly on the untouched glass of whatever-it-was in his hand. He tried to bolt it down, but only found up choking on the burning sensation it spread down his throat and into his chest. He sputtered into the cup and hunched up in pain, each contraction of his chest a terrible reminder of his injury. There was a flurry of motion at his side, and soon Mytho had taken one cup away and pressed another into his hand, encouraging him to drink while at the same time patting his back in a way that was as unhelpful as it was painful. He finally managed to gulp down enough of the water to cool and clear his throat, only to fall back onto the bed and attempt to catch his breath. Mytho, miraculously, caught the cup before it could shatter on the floor.

"What was that?" Fakir asked once he'd regained his breath, his voice now hoarse as well as weak.

"Medicine," Mytho replied simply. He laid a hand on Fakir's bandaged chest, the touch feather-light. "It will help your body mend itself quickly. It's already saved your life by healing the worst of the damage."

Fakir tried valiantly to sink into the mattress, away from Mytho's hand. "Does it not work if you dilute it?" he asked.

"It was diluted, very heavily so," Mytho said, the vaguely sheepish expression on his face suggesting that he knew exactly how little that meant at the moment. He withdrew his hand and seated himself at the edge of the bed. "I should have warned you."

The words held more meaning than any explicit apology, any automatic 'I'm sorry,' Mytho has ever offered before he had regained his heart, and it brought a tired smile to Fakir's lips even as an unsettling thought occurred to him.

"What about the man who shot me?" he asked. "Was he caught, or should I be worried even now?"

Mytho grew unhappily quiet and shook his head. "The woman. And yes, she was caught."

Fakir raised an eyebrow. A woman had shot him? That was hardly what he had expected to hear, but it was far from impossible. "What's being done with her?" he asked.

"Nothing," Mytho immediately replied. Fakir could practically see the tension in his shoulders, hear the discomfort in his soft voice. "Nothing needs to be done at this point."

"Ah," Fakir murmured after a moment. He decided to let that subject lie for the time being. As long as the attacker had been captured, he was in no hurry to learn exactly what had Mytho so troubled. With great effort, he pushed himself back up onto his elbows before settling back against the cushions. He felt quite proud of himself for sitting up. "Well, then. Since you obviously didn't get a chance to talk to me about it at the party, could you explain what's happening now that I've been rendered a captive audience?"

Mytho nodded, the tension leaving his body as that stern, princely expression returned to his face. It was such a firm expression that it almost looked out of place on the boy's round face. When he finally spoke, it was with a tone of certainty and authority that Fakir had never heard in Mytho's voice, and he felt compelled to listen in silence, his gaze never leaving the Prince's face.

"In the years following my departure from the Story, the world as my people know it ceased to move or change, as if my absence from the world had rendered it unable to continue on. So the world lie dormant, every last person effectively asleep save for one, how I may never know. And while the world slept, she gathered what power remained and waited, biding her time until I returned. We knew nothing of this until the snow from the mountaintops started to creep down into the valleys below in the middle of March, bringing with it deeply dark nights and hordes of vicious beasts. Crops failed and many died before we devised some way to congregate people within the major cities where we could raise barriers against the blight. That was over a year ago."

Mytho paused as if awaiting some sort of response. The hardness had left his features, and Fakir was suddenly reminded of the haunted, implacable look that would cloud the other boy's face during that uneasy week they had spent in hiding in the mill house. Fakir leaned forward as best he could without wincing.

"What does she want, then? Why is she doing this?"

The Prince shook his head. "Besides the suffering of my people? I haven't the slightest idea. Recently her hordes have taken to abducting those wandering outside the protected cities. I cannot allow this to go on."

Fakir nodded in dazed comprehension. The medicine, whatever it had been, had a distinct mind-numbing effect on him that made his head swim and threads of thought unravel. "So you plan to stop her yourself, then," Fakir said, his voice grave but familiar as he placed a hand on Mytho's shoulder. "You really are an idiot."

Mytho's own pale hand reached up to cover Fakir's. "I am an idiot," he admitted easily. "But I'm not going by myself."

"No, I guess not," Fakir said. He reflexively pulled his hand back – or tried to, anyway – only to find it held in place by Mytho's.

Mytho had turned to inspect Fakir's hand, his thumb moving lightly over the raised gash of lighter skin that formed the scar from Drosselmeyer's pen knife. Fakir swallowed.

"It left a rather large scar, didn't it?" the Prince mused, his eyebrows knotted up in a mixture of concern and guilt.

"It isn't so bad," Fakir said. Before he could move to pull his hand away, Mytho had gotten to his feet, still grasping Fakir's hand gently but firmly. He pressed his lips to the thin white scar, and Fakir felt their warmth speed up his arm and neck to his face. He sputtered and retracted his hand, muttering something half coherent about not being a girl.

Mytho smiled thinly. "As thanks," he said. He pressed the back of his own hand to Fakir's forehead. Fakir figured he'd misinterpreted the red tinge his face had taken on, and was relieved by that thought. "You have a fever. You should sleep a while longer."

Before Fakir could protest, Mytho had crossed the room to the door, wished him a good rest, and left. Fakir sank back into his bed, somehow freshly exhausted, and drifted to sleep.

* * *

Several hours later, far closer to lunch time than dawn, Fakir awoke again. Sitting up brought little discomfort this time, and he had decided immediately after discovering this that he was well and truly sick of lying in bed. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and poured himself a small cup of the awful mirror-sheen medicine, suppressing a cough after bolting it down. He then made a hurried trip to the bathroom that was part of his chambers, and started his search for another clean set of clothes. He wound up settling for the fresh nightgown draped over the chair. The flimsy white fabric made him look like a scarecrow that had caught a sheet carried off some housewife's clothesline by the wind.

The hallway outside his room was quite deserted, and he strode down it confident that no well-meaning nursemaids would usher him back to his bed. All he wanted was to walk around and breathe some fresh air, and surely he would be permitted that even if he was caught sneaking out of bed. The sound of his bare feet on the smooth stones of the floor echoed faintly down the hallway, growing fainter as he approached the staircase that would take him out into the courtyard. He shielded his eyes against the mid-day sun, a sudden warm gust whipping the nightgown around his legs.

"What a sight, what a sight," a voice beside him remarked.

Startled, Fakir turned to glower at the old man who had sidled up beside him. He looked friendly enough – Fakir would call him too friendly – with his frazzled grey hair, and wrinkle-rimmed eyes in a matching shade magnified behind thick spectacles.

"It's not my fault nobody left me any proper clothes, so don't say I'm a sight," Fakir said dismissively, turning to walk off. To his great displeasure, he could hear the unmistakable sound of shuffling footsteps pursuing him, ever so slowly.

"Your clothes aren't the thing I mean, and you know it, Sir Lohengrin."

Fakir froze, then cast a cold look over his shoulder. "Don't use that name for me," he said sharply. "It isn't mine."

The old man chortled. "Oh, isn't it? You surely fooled me, then, wearing his face minus five years or so as you do. Your hair's straighter than I remember, but what's what I remember worth at the end of the day?"

"Very little," Fakir replied. He turned to face the hunched old man, a bit baffled at himself for entertaining the conversation at all. "My face is my own. I look like my mother, not some dead knight."

"Of course your face is yours, boy, I never said otherwise," he old man said chidingly as he walked a full circle around Fakir, looking him up and down, appraising him. He nodded as if satisfied with his findings. "Even the way you stand is right. You can't be anybody else but who you are. Nobody can."

"And I'm not."

"Then it's settled, Sir Lohengrin."

Fakir seethed. "It isn't settled. I'm Fakir, not Lohengrin, and you'll call me that."

That outburst earned a small scoff and a wave of the old man's hand. "So you might be, but you're Lohengrin to me. I've been many different things to many different people, too. You were Lohengrin once, yes, then Fakir, yes. Now maybe you're not either. Just who is Prince Siegfried to you, now that you've known him twice over?"

Fakir didn't spare the question a thought beyond the brief moment it took him to connect the name to Mytho. "My prince and my friend," he answered simply.

"Then that, at least, has never changed," the old man said. He smiled, the expression creating far too many folds in his face, and tapped his temple. "He has kept you in mind since returning, you know. He would have invited you to the wedding, had the opportunity arisen."

A frown pulled at the corners of Fakir's mouth. "I don't begrudge him for not inviting me," he said, his voice calculatedly cool and unaffected.

For a split second, the old man's eyes widened, and he looked somewhat trapped. It pleased Fakir. "Well, you can hardly invite people to a wedding that never happens, can you?" he said, his bright demeanor returning at full force even as his voice took on a conspiratorial edge.

Fakir only looked down at him blankly. He'd simply assumed that Mytho and Rue had married immediately upon arriving in the Story. After all, wasn't that the way of things?

"You didn't know," the old man said. He nodded sagely. "The princess's parentage presents some problems. People aren't exactly eager to see their prince wed the daughter of the monster that nearly destroyed their country. And who can blame them? In order for the union to go unchallenged, she would have to present some proof of her true lineage. No small feat when one's been taken to another world entirely."

Fakir folded his arms, uncertain of what to make of that news. "That seems..." he began, not truly intending to finish the thought. The old man did it for him, regardless.

"Unfair? Oh, absolutely it is! Unfair and unjust and unusual!" He paused for thought, something Fakir imagined was a rare event he should savor. "Though, I may be embittered against the idea of setting up a challenge for a prospective groom. Or for a bride, for that matter. Failed my own, failed it utterly and lost a beautiful girl I loved with all my heart."

The confession intrigued Fakir, if only because he had never heard such a story culminate in failure and loss. It was morbid curiosity that spurred him to prompt the old man to continue. "What did you have to do?"

The old man sighed and pushed his spectacles up on his nose. "Oh, it seemed very simple on the outset. Her father asked me to introduce him to a man who had never made a terrible mistake thinking he'd done only what was right." He paused as if for dramatic effect, and Fakir sighed.

"Who did you bring, then?"

"Myself," the old man said, shame tinging his voice for only a moment before he brightened again and turned on one barefooted heel to saunter off into the keep. "And that's quite enough story time for one day, Sir Lohengrin. You haven't the time for it, and neither do I. Keep in mind what I've said, unless you don't."

Fakir could only find to drive to watch, dumbfounded, as the strange old codger let himself in through the keep's massive door and shut it quietly behind him.


End file.
